Dear Sam: The Bridge photos were a joyous surprise! I can’t have it from
too many angles! And the roof portrait of yourself with all the chimney
pots! You are as generous and thoughtful a friend as ever.
Nothing much happens hereabouts. I haven’t even seen Bill [Sommer] yet,
but I have a line out. Did I tell you that I called on D---- B. one
morning? That was almost three weeks ago. He looked haggard, his
complexion splotched, and thoroughly miserable; though he made an effort
to be as suave as possible, I’m sure, it was evident that he _was_
making an effort. I made no further than a general allusion to his
illness and as no details were proffered I left him as ignorant in such
respects as I had come. There seemed to be no way of arousing his
interests to any extent. He’s evidently in a hell of a state, physically
and mentally--a combination of both interacting, I suppose.
You’ll be interested in the story of the enclosed card, I’m sure. I
chanced upon it just the other day in one of the local news stores. Then
someone told me a few anecdotes concerning the local blacksmith, named
Church, who died not so very long ago and was regarded as a most
“peculiar” individual by most of the townspeople. What struck me in the
first place was the obvious coincidence of a parallel use of symbols,
the serpent and the eagle, with my lines on Pocahontas in _The Bridge_.
“Time, like a serpent, down her shoulder, dark,
And space, an eaglet’s wing laid on her hair.”
The serpent isn’t hard to locate, and you’ll see the rather dim outlines
of the fore part of an eagle just below where I have indicated in the
margin. This blacksmith aroused considerable conjecture by his midnight
absences, until someone followed his lantern down to this rock where he
was busy night after night on this frieze. I think it has a real
aesthetic value, like other primitive sculpture--and I’m planning an
expedition to the rock as soon as the snow melts a little.
The blacksmith’s character must have been rather Blakeian, for he also
carved his own tombstone--a lion couchant beside a lamb and a figure of
a man walking. And imagine the surprise of his survivors when on the
occasion of his obsequies his own voice pronounced his own funeral
sermon from the disk of a phonograph! Well, I guess Sherwood Anderson
didn’t quite scoop up _all_ the characters of Winesburg!
My father and his wife have just left for a vacation in Havana, with
extensive notes in their pocket from me as to what French wines to
order, where to go, etc. Mrs. Crane #3 has never seen palms and
sparkling waters and was deservedly rife with expectations. It’s the
first real vacation either of them have had for several years and they
will forget business for the time being, I certainly hope, and have a
splendid time. They certainly have my affectionate wishes.
I’m going into town this afternoon for dinner with the Rychtariks, with
a Bloch quartet this evening. Altogether I’m feeling much better, Sam,
despite certain restrictions--which, however, may be good for me for a
while. Nothing has been found yet in the way of work, but the tension on
that subject has fortunately been temporarily somewhat relaxed. --/--/
354: TO LORNA DIETZ
[_Chagrin Falls_] _Feb. 10th ’31_
Dear Lorna: --/--/ As nothing more has been said about photography, I
guess I’m to be spared the useless apprenticeship to the village baby
tickler; instead I’ve been hammering, waxing, rubbing, painting and
repairing--odd jobs--around the place, and work which is rather amusing.
Once a week I generally go into Cleveland and spend some hours with my
old friends, the Rychtariks (a Prague painter and his wife whom you must
have heard me mention) who really “belong”--and are about the only
people in this district that I enjoy seeing. I can be more or less
myself with them, and that’s a great relief after the unmitigated rigor
of the parental regime. (Poetry or anything like that is an offense to
mention here, as something belonging in the category with “youthful
errors,” “wild oats,” et cetera, and the “reform” that has been
inaugurated has brought me back to just that pleasantly vegetable state
of mind that can read Coolidge’s daily advice without a tremor of
protest.) My father, you can visualize his type, is “enjoying” the
depression, or at least his incessant howls about it. Despite the losses
personally involved, I think he will actually be disappointed if matters
improve in less than five years. From his standpoint at any rate,
anything that disproved his doleful prediction would prove a calamity.
His great reiteration being that every one has been spending too much
money. He is willing to admit, however, that it hasn’t been spent on
candy! (which is among the luxuries, too, if I am not mistaken). All of
which makes very stimulating conversation, of course, especially when
you are obliged to agree on each and every occasion and reiteration, ad
infinitum....
The possibility of a Guggenheim keeps me restive. That failing, I may
hike back east in March anyway. Too prolonged a stay here at my present
age isn’t sensible, whatever the alternatives may be right now, and
however generously my father might feel.
You’ve been awfully generous in writing. Sounds as though your winter
were being rather pleasant after all. -- -- -- -- Partying seems to
continue unabated as well as discussions of Communism. But Eda Lou
Walton writes me that nobody is writing anything. Certainly I’m not
either. Some reading, however. No wonder F---- liked _The Story of San
Michele_ so much; it’s almost as full of dog sentiment as she is. But in
some ways a marvelous book. A friend of mine on _Fortune_, Russell
Davenport, has written a good book, _Through Traffic_, on a combined
business and love theme. I’ll send it to you to keep for me and read.
I’ve just gotten around to read _Jurgen_! Always resented the pow-wow
about it, but rather like it. Dos Passos’ _42nd Parallel_ is good--as
far as it goes. But Dos has yet to create a full portrait. What did you
think of Mumford’s series of leaders in the _Tribune_, just concluded? I
find myself agreeing pretty thoroughly with him. --/--/
355: TO WALDO FRANK
_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _Feb. 19th_
Dear Waldo: --/--/ These are bewildering times for everyone, I suppose.
I can’t muster much of anything to say to anyone. I seem to have lost
the faculty to even feel tension. A bad sign, I’m sure. When they all
get it decided, Capitalism or Communism, then I’ll probably be able to
resume a few intensities; meanwhile there seems to be no sap in
anything. I’d love to fight for--almost anything, but there seems to be
no longer any real resistance. Maybe I’m only a disappointed romantic,
after all. Or perhaps I’ve made too many affable compromises. I hope to
discover the fault, whatever it is, before long.
Since you seem to have retired completely from any journalistic
appearances I’m completely ignorant of your current opinions or
reactions. Do write me soon and tell me what you’re engaged in. And such
of your plans as you care to divulge. I’d like to have heard your recent
lecture mentioning _The Bridge_, as I gather. Present day America seems
a long way off from the destiny I fancied when I wrote that poem. In
some ways Spengler must have been right.
On the water wagon two months now.... If abstinence is clarifying to the
vision, as they claim, then give me back the blindness of my will. It
needs a fresh baptism.
356: TO HENRY ALLEN MOE
_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _March 16, 1931_
Dear Mr. Moe: My appointment as a Fellow of the John Simon Guggenheim
Memorial Foundation is appreciated greatly, not only as a welcome
opportunity to continue my creative endeavors, but also as a
distinguished honor conferred upon me as a poet. In accepting this
Fellowship for 1931-32 I feel a stimulating sense of pride and
gratitude. Needless to say, this evidence of trust in my abilities and
character, alone and quite apart from my instinctive response to such
good fortune, would prompt me to my utmost efforts to justify such
confidence as the liberal terms and the generous conditions of the
Fellowship imply. I fully subscribe to all these conditions as detailed
in your announcement,--not, however, without realizing that I am
assuming some serious responsibilities.
As I am at present among the vast horde of the unemployed--and with
nothing of consequence to detain me, I should like to situate myself
definitely as soon as possible in a favorable environment for
constructive work and study. It will therefore be most gratifying to
hear from you regarding the propriety and feasibility of taking up my
projected foreign residence at an early date. To be specific, I should
like to sail for France by the middle part of April, provided such
proposal meets the unreserved approval of the Trustees of the
Foundation. A statement from a local physician regarding my state of
health will be sent you very shortly. --/--/
357: TO CHARLOTTE AND RICHARD RYCHTARIK
_New York, New York_ _March 30th_
Dear Lotte & Ricardo: I am to sail to _Mexico_ (damn the gendarmes!)
next Saturday. The change [in Guggenheim Fellowship plans] was made
without any trouble and I am too happy at change to a _really_ (for
_me_) creative locality to be anything but pregnant.
Have been having too wonderful a time to breathe--and it still goes on.
Will write you more when I know my permanent address. First a week in
Mexico City with my old and wonderful friend, Katherine Anne Porter
(whom you will notice _also_ was awarded)--and then on to some country
location. --/--/
358: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN
_México, D.F._ [_Mexico City_] _April 12, 1931_
Dear Sambo: Got here last night (I always seem to arrive in cities on
Sat. nights) and have just had a Sunday dinner a la Mexicano. I begin to
feel at home here already, despite my complete ignorance of the
language. But kindly people and generous faces have a way of
compensating for one’s lack of palabra. The peons are the marvel of the
place, just as Lawrence said. So lovable, and although picturesque, not
in any way consciously so. What faces, and the suffering in them--but so
little evidence of bitterness.
We had one evening in Havana, and one night in Vera Cruz on the way, the
latter not to be repeated if I can help it. I had better than usual luck
by meeting on the second day out the great Dr. Hans Zinsser, of Harvard,
who is probably the world’s greatest bacteriologist. And what a man
besides! He arrived along with me last night with letters from the state
and war departments and a half dozen rats in the hold loaded with the
deadly typhus. He is to conduct some local experiments and then return
to Harvard in two weeks, leaving his assistant, Dr. Maximiliano
Castaneda here for 3 more months to complete the experiment. Castaneda,
being a native Mexican and very much a gentleman, has and will continue
to do all kinds of favors for me--and one thing is assured: I shall not
lack proper attendance here if I ever get sick. “Max” as I call him,
knows everyone from the president down.
Zinsser, a product of Heidelberg, the Sorbonne, Pasteur Institute and
other places besides American Universities, knows and has more
interesting ideas about literature than almost anyone I have ever met.
What conversations we had!--He’s about 51, bandy legged from riding fast
horses, looks about 40 at most, writes damn good poetry (which he claims
he’d rather do than excel as he does in the scientific world) and in
carelessness and largesse is a thoroughbred if I ever saw one.... But I
could write ten books about him and his incredible adventures in the war
and in various parts of the world. Next year he’s going to Abyssinia to
fight hook worm and other complaints. Well--and what is the best of
it--I guess I’ve made a friend who will be a perennial stimulus to the
best that I can do.
The ride up from Vera Cruz was marvelous, not alone the scenery, but the
country people all along the way who swarmed around the train selling
fruits, cakes, tortillas, serapes, canes, flowers, pulque, beer and what
have you! One rides up, up along incredible ledges over valleys filled
with tropical vegetation, waterfalls, etc., for about 5 hours. Then in
front of Orizaba everything suddenly begins to change. This is the great
plateau that in some ways seems even more splendid. Very austere--and
with the mountains rising in the distance on each side, here and there
the feudal walls of some old rancho--and the burros and brown natives
jogging along dry roads. How I wish you were here to witness it. But you
will come sometime. I know. --/--/
359: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER
[_Mixcoac_] [_April 28_]
DEAR KATHERINE ANNE: HAVE GONE TO THE MANCERA[65] UNTIL THE FIRST.
EXCUSE MY WAKEFULNESS PLEASE.
P.S. NO. HAVEN’T BEEN BUSY WITH “LOVERS.” JUST YEOWLS AND FLEAS. LYSOL
ISN’T NECESSARY IN THE BATHTUB. HAVEN’T GOT “ANYTHING” YET. --/--/
360: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER
[_Mixcoac_] [_April 30_]
Dear Katherine Anne: This is as near as I dare come to you today. Shame
and chagrin overwhelm me. I hope you can sometime forgive.
361: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER
[_Mixcoac_] [_May 1_]
Darling Katherine Anne: I’m too jittery to write a straight sentence but
am coming out of my recent messiness with at least as much consistency
as total abstinence can offer.
Your two notes were so kind and gave me so much more cheer than I
deserve that I’m overcome all over again. God bless you!!! I’ve got
myself in a fix with a hell of [a] bill at the Mancera--but I’ll get out
of it somehow. My father is sending me some money--meanwhile Hazel Cazes
is going to advance some.
This house is a love--and I’m glad to know that it won’t be ruined for
me now by any absence on your part--and -- -- -- --. The recent cyclone is
my last--at least for a year. Love and a thousand thanks.
When I get D.T.’s again I’ll just take it out on police.... They’ll have
at least a cell for me--or a straitjacket.
362: TO MALCOLM COWLEY
_Mixcoac, DF_ _June 2nd, 1931_
Dear Malcolm: --/--/ Don’t expect much more from me about Mexico for
awhile. Maybe it’s the altitude (which _is_ a tremendous strain at
times), maybe my favorite drink, Tequila; maybe my b----s and the
beautiful people; or maybe just the flowers that I’m growing or
fostering in my garden ... but it’s all too good, so far, to be true.
I’ve been too preoccupied, so far, with furnishing, from every little
nail, griddle, bowl and pillow, to look around much outside the
fascinating city markets and streets and bars. No chance to stretch
pennies--just to spend them. Ran out long ago on my Guggenheim
installment. But a house just can’t be lived in without a few
essentials. And the main “standard American” essentials in Mexico cost
like hell.
Lorna [Dietz] will have to relay to you the more complete details of my
house, should such matters interest you. I found, by advice, that singly
mozos weren’t apt to be much good. Pulque sprees three times a day, and
the evenings never certain. Besides I needed a woman to cook.
Consequently I have a delightful hide and seek combination--of both
functions (page Mormon be sneezed BUnson) besides a new installation of
electric lights with just enough “glim”--not to say Klim--to be
pleasant.
Moisés [Sáenz] has been swell to me. His innate Aztec refinement; his
quiet daring; his generosity (one should avoid an _et cetera_ in such
exceptional cases!) has made me love him very much. He was very
instrumental in my accidental possession of a real decoration: an
ancient silver pony bridle (bells and all!) from the period of the
Conquest, about my neck in a photo taken by Katherine Anne [Porter]--you
shall soon see, like it,--believe it, or not!
I have a quilty, besides a guilty conscience! Haven’t yet even written
to Waldo [Frank], whose letters gave me a wonderful send-off with
certain writers here. But Latin American manners, I have discovered, are
rather baffling. Great dinners are planned, but never come off! If
Katherine Anne couldn’t explain it all away with references to certain
previous experiences of her own, I’d feel quite crushed. As it is, I
don’t mind in the least. Because ... Mexico has incredibly fine native
painters. (You should see the new Diegos [Rivera] in the Palace!) But
all her pretenders to poesy have just read about orchids in Baudelaire,
apparently. I have my most pleasant literary moments with an Irish
revolutionary, red haired friend of Liam O’Flaherty, shot (and not
missed) seventeen times in one conflict and another; the most quietly
sincere and appreciative person, in many ways, whom I’ve ever met. It’s
a big regret that he’s Dublin bound again after three years from home,
in a few weeks. Ernest O’Malley by name. And we drink a lot
together--look at frescos--and agree! --/--/
363: TO WALDO FRANK
_Mixcoac, D.F._ _June 13th, 1931_
Dear Waldo: It seems to require much more determination to write a
letter, so far, than to fuss around in my flower garden that skirts
three sides of the house I have taken here in Mixcoac for a year. My
long-suppressed passion for a few plants and a “philosopher’s walk,”
however, is far from being the sole reason for my neglectfulness of you.
The novelty and turmoil incident to the first few weeks; then locating a
house; then furnishing it with the indispensables, from broom to
teakettle, from mop to mattress; then “breaking in” a native couple to
cook and sweep--all with my limited native vocabulary! Well, it’s been a
good deal to have undertaken, freshly lifted, as I am, to this high
altitude.
Despite this delay in getting down to work, I haven’t any regrets. You
may remember that I spoke of establishing a headquarters as soon as
possible on my arrival. I’ve had to squirm for money temporarily, but
corresponding later savings and the creative advantages of having a
place of my own--really for the first time in my life--ought to justify
my action.
As for Mexico--I’m not frothing over quite so much as I did for awhile,
but I’m still so fascinated and impressed by the people that I want to
stay much longer than one year, if I can manage to. You were right, it’s
a sick country; and God knows if it ever has been, or will be otherwise.
I doubt if I will ever be able to fathom the Indian really. It may be a
dangerous quest, also. I’m pretty sure it is, in fact. But humanity is
so unmechanized here still, so immediate and really dignified (I’m
speaking of the Indians, peons, country people--not the average mestizo)
that it is giving me an entirely fresh perspective. And whether
immediately creative or not, more profound than Europe gave me.... This
is truly “another world.” There isn’t much use for the present in
describing my reactions beyond saying that I find them all expressed in
my emphatic agreement with nearly everything said by Anita Brenner in
her _Idols Behind Altars_ which I’ve just finished reading. It would
take me, I imagine, a long residence here to be able to contradict any
of her statements, besides which I am so sympathetic to her attitude,
reactions and general thesis as not to care to court divergencies of
opinion.
A few days after my arrival I took a taxi and delivered the letters of
introduction that you so generously provided. I immediately heard from
Leon Felipe [Camino], and a few days later had an audience with Estrada.
The former I saw a couple of times later--and was introduced to a flock
of writers, doctors, etc., one afternoon at the Café Colon. Camino
seemed very cordial, but suddenly “dropped” me. Latin-Americans, I’ve
been told (and now I _know_) have a way of inviting you out on some
specific day, and then “letting you down” most beautifully--without
notice or subsequent apology or explanation. I’ve got so that I take it
quite for granted, and if any other more tempting occasion offers itself
in the meantime, I, too, humor my whim.
Estrada gave me two de luxe volumes of his poetry in response to the
copy of _The Bridge_ (Paris edition) I brought up to him. I can’t read
Spanish well enough yet to even attempt his books, nor any other
“Mexican” poetry; but off-hand I’ve more spontaneous respect for him
than for Camino, who, as soon as he heard I was about to call on
Estrada, began to ridicule both the man and his work in high glee. What
makes me rather indifferent to all of them is the fact that not one of
them is really interested one iota in expressing anything indigenous;
rather they are busy aping (as though it could be done in Spanish!) Paul
Valéry, Eliot,--or more intensely, the Parnassians of 35 years ago. And
they are all “bored”--or at least pleased to point the reference.
Estrada spoke very warmly of you, and after what some of the others
said, I should consider him a real friend of yours. In contrast to their
general directions and preoccupations, however, I still (to date, at any
rate) harbor the illusion that there is a soil, a mythology, a people
and a spirit here that are capable of unique and magnificent utterance.
Moisés Sáenz, who has had me out to his place at Taxco, and who has
treated me as hospitably and generously as anyone I ever remember, has
the same conviction. And he says that Casanova, whom I have merely met,
has a more natural attitude than the typical Mexican _litterateur_. I
hope to see more of Casanova later; he’s been ill most of the time since
I got here. I’ve not yet had a reply from Montéllano. Camino asked to do
some translations from _White Bldgs_ for _Contemporaneos_. I gave him
the book--and offered assistance. But since he found me out of the stiff
black round-shouldered “elegance”--in fact in my usual household white
sailor pants and shirt--he hasn’t been heard from--by mail or otherwise.
One must appear in veritable Wall Street gear to impress the Mexican
hidalgo!
He said that he was translating your new Latin Am. book, as I remember.
Will you tell me something about its publication date, etc.--since I
can’t get any reply from Camino? And now, how about your new work, your
novel? And your plans for this summer, etc.? I hope you are having a
smooth road toward some really individual expression. Hope you’ll
approve of my reference to you in the enclosed interview, from
_Excelsior_. _El Universal_ was also very kindly. Their feature writer,
Rafael Valle, is a very decent and intelligent and constant friend of
mine. -- -- -- --
Katherine Anne Porter and I are neighbors here in Mixcoac. You really
ought to get hold of her book _Flowering Judas_. The title story, and
another called “María Concepción,” are very profound comments on Mexico.
364: TO MORTON DAUWEN ZABEL
_Mixcoac, D.F., Mexico_ _June 20th, 1931_
Dear Mr. Zabel: The post (for books, etc. 2nd class) is apt to be very
slow to Mexico,--at any rate unreliable. If this be not too great an
impediment to either my reception or return of review books from
_Poetry_--then let me ask for the two books suggested by you for review
in your very kind letter of June 11th.
Further, I realize that my facilities for adequate reviewing of books
are somewhat restricted here, there being no library handy for
consultation on recent or even near-recent works on American poetry,
etc. But if you are willing to take the risk--then so am I. And if you
find the resultant estimates too biased or unfounded, you certainly need
be under no compulsion to print them.
Didn’t Roy Helton compile an anthology, or rather a study interspersed
with very good quotations, on Negro folk songs, spirituals, etc.? I
suppose the jacket of his book will contain whatever reference to his
earlier works are notable. But if not, please give me some word about
the above.
Allow me to thank you and Miss Monroe for the copy of _Poetry_ recently
received. I hope, and very earnestly, that I shall soon have something
worthy to submit to you. Since leaving the pattern of _The Bridge_ the
“new freedom” (call it rather a new restriction) has left me, at least
momentarily, rather speechless. I’m too attached to the consciousness of
my own land to write “tourist sketches” elsewhere. Mexico is well
enough. But I’d rather be in my favorite corner of Connecticut. The
first requirement of a scholarship, however, is to leave the U.S.A. It
doesn’t matter much whither. It wouldn’t so much matter if the entire
outside world didn’t positively hate us Americans so much. To create in
such an atmosphere isn’t so easy however!
365: TO SELDEN RODMAN
_Mixcoac, D.F._ _June 20th, 1931_
Dear Selden Rodman: --/--/ I hope you will not forsake the Muse, or her
pursuit. For in the light of your “Departure” it seems to me, you ought
certainly to write that “Unwritten Poem” mentioned in the subtitle; for
there are lines and passages in its “Prologue” that I like immensely. I
hope I can mention a few points without offense; the first six stanzas,
I think, present the longest solid stretch of sustained intention, some
of the rest seeming to me diffuse in patches, or at least susceptible of
condensation. But when I speak of condensation I am presumably alluding
as much to my own craze or weakness for that characteristic. For I’ve
carried that element to the extreme point of unintelligibility more than
once, as I well know. Here are a few of my favorite lines anyway:
I must leave, said the traveler, everything behind me:
The place that watched when no one else was by
The worth of life is the single shrill protesting
Voice; come near, listen but do not learn, he said.
What has the flashing train in a gorge at midnight
Carried from peace that a million years withstood?
Then there seems (to me) a rather blank or vague piling of lines until
one comes to the splendidly concentrated lines beginning:
_Yes, for the ink_, etc., and continuing for 16 lines of real intensity
that reminds me in the best sense of Rimbaud. And although you are
still a long way from the ending, I can’t so far see that between there
and the final stanza you gain much more than a few implications and the
statement of a few opinions (which statements, etc., don’t seem to rise
to the same level as the passages that I’ve already mentioned as being
so good). Please take my opinions as lightly as thistle down, however,
as I’m a cripple already to my own fetishes in style, and probably as
blind as a bat in any broad sense of criticism. Beyond that, I’ll have
to blame you, as you asked me for my opinion on that poem.
Hale’s article on the Future of the Novel is the only other thing in
this number I’ve had time to read. Hale rather frightens me: he’s so
declamatory and so sure. He must be a good sort to talk with; at least
I’d like the chance sometimes. I agree so much with some of his
statements, his keenness on the scent of such men as Thomas Wolfe, whose
_Look Homeward, Angel_ was one of the real experiences of life. But I
imagine that some of Hale’s very laudable intensity will have to take a
less declamatory form of expression if he wants to exert the influence
as a critic which is really his due. I don’t mean that this involves any
compromises, either.
Are you taking up some special studies in Europe? I hope you have such
intentions; for without such anchorage, I found that Europe had a very
debilitating effect on me. Not that I could have been so privileged as
to have had that chance, since I have never had a day in school beyond
my junior year in high school; but the case is considerably different
with you.
You mentioned MacLeish and the Conquistador poem in _The Yale Review_. I
wish I had bought the copy of that--the one I hastily glanced at in
Brentano’s basement months and months ago! I hope that he is well along
with the rest of that poem, so fine was the opening. MacLeish has a more
flexible literary genius than anyone writing in America today, and he’ll
probably be the most noteworthy poet of our times. His sensibility isn’t
as prodigal and startling as Cummings’; but then, Cummings will never
take the trouble to prune anything or discipline his genius. --/--/
366: TO KATHERINE ANNE PORTER
[_Mixcoac_] [_June 22_]
Dear Katherine Anne: My apologies are becoming so mechanical as (through
repetition) to savour of the most negligible insincerity. So I have to
leave most of this to your judgment of the potency and malfeasance of an
overdose of tequila.
Let Theodora[66] know--if I have any chance of talking with you and
explaining. Otherwise I’ll know that you don’t want to be molested even
to that point of endurance.
I spent the night in jail--as Theodora has probably told you. That was,
in its way, sufficient punishment. Besides having made a fool of myself
in Town.... However I was arrested for nothing more than challenging the
taxi driver for an excessive rate. But if it hadn’t been for waiting for
you--hour on hour, and trying to keep food warm, cream sweet, and my
damnable disposition--don’t suppose I’d have yelled out at you so
horribly en route to doom!
I don’t ask you to forgive. Because that’s probably past hope. But since
Peggy [Baird] will be here in a few days--I’d rather, for her sake as
well as mine, that she didn’t step into a truly Greenwich Village scene.
367: TO WILLIAM WRIGHT
_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _July 15th, 1931_
Dear Bill: --/--/ I’m very glad that you spoke about the check I sent
you early in April. I couldn’t figure it out any other way than that you
had waited until the following month before turning it in; and if that
wasn’t exactly the case I still can’t understand why it was returned as
invalid. For my account, at least until the last of May, stood well in
excess of the amount of your check. I was on the point of writing you an
inquiry about all this when I was called north. The check enclosed,
however, will not be at all questionable. I’m very sorry you’ve had to
wait so long, and let me repeat my profound thanks to you for your very
generous help.
As to my father’s business; certain branches and departments of it (that
is, several of its corporate entities in which he had controlling
interest) will undoubtedly be carried on. Inventories are now in
progress, statements regarding the net estate, etc., are in preparation;
and as yet it is, of course, impossible to know exactly what course will
be taken. Mrs. Crane was left with the authorization of deciding
practically everything. Which was right and proper, since I have never
taken any active part in any branch of my father’s concerns. I am left
in reasonably secure circumstances, at least for a few years, however,
and if I so choose I can probably pursue my own literary studies with a
somewhat free-er mind than formerly.
It is a real consolation to me now that I made the long stay here with
my father that I did last winter. As you already know, our relations for
many years, had been somewhat confused by general family disturbances
which were most unfortunate and which resulted in a great many
misunderstandings. Father and I had recently got acquainted all over
again. It made both of us very much happier. And if my father had to go
thus early in life--I’m very grateful that at least I am left with a
fuller appreciation of his fine qualities and of his genuine love for me
than might have been possible without the course of some recent events.
I can say that his character and the impress of it that I lately
received will be a real inspiration to me. That is the finest kind of
bequest that one can leave, I’m sure. --/--/
368: TO LORNA DIETZ
_Chagrin Falls, Ohio_ _July 15th, 1931_
Dearest Lorna: To begin with the same subject which you did in your
last--and to continue with what has been almost an obsession with me for
the last month--I want to say a few words about Katherine Anne Porter.
Not that I can possibly give even the outline of the whole queer
situation, but since she has done so much announcing, just a hint at the
circumstances.
Katherine Anne’s disposition, as I knew her initially in NY was
considerably different than I found it to be since -- -- -- -- in Mexico.
--/--/ Katherine Anne was quite lovely to me on more than one occasion,
and since I have always liked her a lot, it was hard to relinquish her
company.
The continuance, however,--and this is the only way I can put
it--resulted in some very strained situations and outbreaks on my
part--generally at times when I had had too much to drink. Since I have
no very clear recollection of everything said during those times I
presume I must have been pretty awful. Everything had been going very
smoothly for some time, however; Katherine Anne frequently dropping into
my place for afternoon chats, beer, etc., when the apparently decisive
moment occurred.
I had asked them both to have dinner with me on a certain day at my
house. It was well understood, etc. I made extensive preparations--and
was left to keep things warm the entire afternoon, nipping at a bottle
of tequila meanwhile, and going through the usual fretful crescendo of
sentiments that such conduct incurs. Toward evening, having fed most of
the natives in the vicinity and being rather upset, I went to town,
where more drinks were downed. But in an argument with the taxi driver
at my gate later in the evening I challenged him to arbitration at the
local police station. Result: a night in jail; for feeling is so high
against Americans in Mexico since the recent Oklahoma affair, that any
pretext is sufficient to embarrass one.
K.A.’s place is just around the corner from the house I took, so on the
way to the station I passed her gate. She and -- -- -- -- happened to be
within speaking distance. I remember having announced my predicament and
of having said, in anger at her response to the dinner engagement,
“Katherine Anne, I have my opinion of you.” I was furious, of course,
and I still have no reason for doubting that -- -- -- -- simply devised
that insult deliberately. I haven’t seen Katherine Anne since, nor has
she ever offered the slightest explanation of her absence. She told a
mutual friend that I said something particularly outrageous to her that
evening at the gate; but what it may have been beyond what I have just
mentioned I don’t know. I wrote her a very humble apology a few days
later, but there was no response.
It’s all very sad and disagreeable. But one imputation I won’t stand
for. That is the obvious and usual one: that my presence in the
neighborhood was responsible for a break or discontinuance of Katherine
Anne’s creative work. --/--/ I’m tired of being made into a bogey or
ogre rampant in Mexico and tearing the flesh of delicate ladies. I’m
also tired of a certain rather southern type of female vanity. And
that’s about all I ever want to say about Katherine Anne again
personally.
My father was buried last Saturday. Mrs. Crane, despite the fact that
the delay was really a great strain on her endurance, insisted on
awaiting my arrival, which wasn’t until late Friday, as I couldn’t get
airplane reservations beyond Albuquerque. She was so grief-stricken that
I’ve been worried about her. I’m more impressed by her sincerity and
dignity than I can tell you, however, and her feelings toward me make me
feel that I have a real home whenever I want to claim it here with her.
She had a room and bath all ready for me--and it’s to be regarded as
permanently mine.
I’m glad that I’ve already been able to be of some help to her in
matters of the estate. It will be some time before all inventories are
taken of various departments of my father’s business and I’ll certainly
be here beyond the time of your trip west, in August. You must plan on
stopping over at least a day. You really ought to see this country
place, for I think it’s worth more than a passing glance. And above and
beyond such considerations, I have a great yen to look you over, as you
might guess. Certainly you can “make it,” and I’m sure that a day’s
break in that long trip would be refreshing. Let me know.
My father’s will left very modest provisions for me, but they are as
good as an annual Guggenheim, anyway, and that is all I really require.
Quite properly, Mrs. Crane was left with the direction of most of his
property and concerns--along with two other executors. The chocolate
business will probably be discontinued, as it should have been anyway,
as soon as one or two expensive leases can be disposed of. I may or may
not take a hand in the picture business--but probably not. Nothing can
be definitely decided until we know more about the total status of the
estate.
As I just wrote Bill [Brown]--who surprised me by writing a very
thoughtful note--I’m increasingly glad that I had those three months
with my father last winter. The enormous advance in mutual understanding
and affection that was achieved has left me with a better and truer
picture of my father than I had ever had before. It’s good to remember,
too, that he was unusually contented and optimistic during the last few
months, about his business and all other concerns. And when he went he
had no more than a passing flash of recognition of the event before
complete unconsciousness supervened. --/--/
369: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN
_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Sept. 11th, 1931_
Dear Sam: --/--/ I have had the pleasure to meet a young archeologist
from Wisconsin, who is studying in the University here and who thinks he
has discovered a buried Aztec pyramid right in the vicinity of my house.
Yesterday we took pick and shovel and worked our heads off digging into
the side of a small hill, itself on a vast elevation overlooking the
entire valley of Anahuac. Except for a few flocks of goats and sheep the
entire neighborhood has been abandoned since the Conquest. A marvelous
stillness and grassy perfume pervade the district; one sees the two
great volcanoes in the distance and a part of the horizon glazed by Lake
Texcoco, seemingly below which floats, as in a dream, the City of
Mexico. It was an arduous and rich afternoon. I have a lame back today,
but also some very interesting chips and pieces of the true Aztec
pottery picked up here and there on the surface and from our little
excavation. The experience is haunting, melancholy too. But such “first
hand” contact beats the more artificial contacts that museums proffer.
We also ran across one of those incredibly sharp fragments of obsidian,
part of a knife blade used either to carve stone and other materials or
human flesh. It is still a mystery as to how they cut obsidian--but this
shard was perfectly edged and graded as though it had been as
conformable as wood. --/--/
370: TO WILLIAM WRIGHT
_Mixcoac, D.F. Mexico_ _Sept. 21, 1931_
Dear Bill: -- -- -- -- Vera Cruz was a hissing cauldron when I got there;
in fact the last two days on the boat were Turkish baths. But once here
on the plateau--I went back to my nightly blankets and recovered
quickly. The aforesaid port has had a pretty little hurricane since my
debarkation. I knew it couldn’t help but happen.
I felt awfully diffident about leaving the U.S., but I’m beginning to be
entirely glad that I came back here after all. In the first place there
was no settling down this time to be accomplished. I found my house in
good order, the servants joyful to see me, and my garden a perfect
miracle of growth and colorful profusion. I could begin “living” right
away without a moment in a hotel, a blanket or kitchen implement to
buy--having spent about three months in such preoccupations on my
previous visit. The rainy season is lasting unusually long, but it keeps
all the verdure so miraculously green that the countryside will hold its
colors all the longer into the long months of drowth to come.
During the mere two weeks since my return I’ve already had the most
interesting adventure that I think I ever remember. I came back with the
resolution to get out more into the smaller cities and pueblos, to get
as thoroughly acquainted with the native Indian population as possible.
So when I met a young archeologist from Wisconsin who asked me to go
along with him on a five days’ trip to Tepoztlan I didn’t linger. Though
two books and a dozen articles have been written about Tepoztlan (see
Stuart Chase’s _Mexico_ and Carleton Beals’ _Mexican Maze_) it has never
been invaded by tourists. And isn’t likely to be, either, for some time.
As there is nothing remotely resembling a hotel or lodging house in the
place I went prepared to sleep on the floor of the Monastery. One can
sleep soundly almost anywhere and be thankful for the limited diet of
beans and tortillas if one has spent the whole day walking, scrambling
over dizzy crags or hunting fragments of old Aztec idols, of which the
surrounding cornfields of Tepoztlan are full.
The town is practically surrounded by cliffs as high as 800 feet, basalt
ledges with a perilous sheer drop sometimes of 300 feet, covered with
dense tropical foliage and veritable hanging gardens--with cascades and
waterfalls galore. The descent begins about 3 miles from El Parque where
the train leaves one--about 4 hours from Mixcoac.
(Distances in linear miles are so deceptive here, since mountainous
country necessitates such inclines and devious windings. One can watch
the engine from the rear most of the way.)
But I’m not going to give an exhaustive description of the town as you
can read that, and better formulated too in Chase’s book, which everyone
seems to be reading now anyway. The most exciting feature of our trip
and visit was the rare luck of arriving on the eve of the yearly
festival (fiesta) of Tepozteco, the ancient Aztec god of pulque, whose
temple, partially ruined by the Spaniards and recent revolutions, still
hangs on one of the perilous cliffs confronting the town.
Only a small fraction of the populace (they are all pure unadulterated
Aztec) took part or even attended this ceremony; but we found those that
did, largely elderly, the finest and kindliest of all the lovely people
of the place. Aside from those who had climbed up to spend the night in
watch at the temple, there were only about twenty-five. These, divided
into several groups around lanterns (of all places!) on the roof of the
Cathedral and Monastery which dominates the town, made a wonderful sight
with their dark faces, white “pyjama” suits and enormous white hats. A
drummer and a flute player standing facing the dark temple on the
heights, alternated their barbaric service at ten minute intervals with
loud ringing of all the church bells by the sextons of the church. Two
voices, still in conflict here in Mexico, the idol’s and the Cross. Yet
there really did not seem to be a real conflict that amazing night.
Nearly all of these “elders” I have been describing go to mass!
And so kindly and interested in explaining the old myths of their gods
to us! Fortunately my archeologist friend speaks perfect
Spanish--besides knowing some Aztec and some local mythology. Meanwhile,
if you can possibly imagine such a night, the lightning flickered over
the eastern horizon while a crescent moon fell into the west. And
between the two a trillion stars glittered overhead! It was truly the
Land of Oz, with the high valley walls in the Wizard’s circle. Rockets
were sent whizzing up--to be answered by other rockets far up and over
from the lofty temple. After nine, when the playing stopped, we asked
the “elders” to a stall in the town market and served them each with a
glass of tequila. We were invited to join them again at 3 A.M. atop the
church again, for the conclusion of the watch.
I’m sorry to say I didn’t awake until five. But it was still pitch dark.
And to hear those weird notes of drum and fife in the dark valley,
refreshed as we were with sleep, it was even more compelling. We rushed
from the baker’s house (where we had found a bamboo bed and exquisite
hospitality) over the rough stone streets into the church yard,
stumbling up the dark corridors and narrow stairs of the monastery just
as a faint light emerged over the eastern break in the cliffs. There was
the same bundle of elders welcoming us and serving us delicious coffee,
all the hotter for a generous infusion of pulque, straight pulque
alcohol in each cup.
But most enthralling of all was the addition of another drum--this being
the ancient Aztec drum, pre-Conquest and guarded year after year from
the destruction of the priests and conquerors, that how many hundreds of
times had been beaten to propitiate the god, Tepozteco, the patron and
protector of these people. A large wooden cylinder, exquisitely carved
and showing a figure with animal head, upright, and walking through
thick woods,--it lay horizontally on the floor of the roof, resounding
to two heavily padded drum sticks before the folded knees of one of the
Indians. The people at the temple had played it up there the night
before, and now someone had brought it down to be played to the rising
sun in the valley.
Suddenly, as it was getting lighter and lighter and excitement was
growing more and more intense, one of the Indians who had been playing
it put the drum sticks into my hands and nodded toward the amazing
instrument. It seemed too good to be true, really, that I, who had
expected to be thrown off the roof when I entered the evening before,
should now be invited to actually participate. And actually I did! I not
only beat the exact rhythm with all due accents, which they had been
keeping up for hours; I even worked in an elaboration, based on the
lighter tattoo of the more modern drum of the evening before. This, with
such ponderous sticks, was exhausting to the muscles of the forearm; but
I had the pleasure of pleasing them so that they almost embraced me.
They did, in fact, several of them--put their arms around our shoulders
and walk back and forth the whole length of the roof, when at the
astronomical hour of six the whole place seemed to go mad in the
refulgence of full day. It is something to hear bells rung, but it is
inestimably better to see the sextons wield the hammers, swinging on
them with the full weight of their entire bodies like frantic
acrobats--while a whole bevy of rockets shower into such a vocal
sunrise!
Well, after that there was the whole series of tableaus and performances
incident to the Mexican Independence Day celebration (Sept. 15-16-17) in
which everybody took part. But of that another time. You can see how I
am enthusiastic about Tepoztlan. I went bathing in mountain streams with
a young Indian, gorged on beans and tortillas, found idols in the
surrounding cornfields and finally, the morning I was leaving, met the
Vicar at stool in the Cathedral. On the climb back to the station we
visited the ancient temple. It still has fragments of remarkable relief
and is staunchly and beautifully constructed. I may go back to Tepoztlan
for two weeks in October. I never left a town feeling so mellow and in
such pleasant relations with everybody in the place. --/--/
371: TO MALCOLM COWLEY
_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Oct. 5th, 1931_
Dear Malcolm: --/--/ Yes, Peggy [Baird] must have been pretty close to
danger for awhile judging by what she said about her symptoms. She
stayed in bed for a week or so, but went to Puebla over last weekend and
looked very well this morning when I called. I think she’s to keep
pretty quiet, however, if relapses aren’t to be expected. Bill Spratling
wired me to bring her along with me to Taxco tomorrow for a few days,
and I think she’s planning on joining me since I’ve had no word to the
contrary this afternoon. She was going to ask her doctor about it....
--/--/
As Bill [Brown] has probably told you, the Katherine Anne [Porter] upset
accounted for my more than diffidence about seeing most of our mutual
friends when I passed through NY. Sometime I may say more about it, but
I’m sick of the subject just now; and since Mexico is proving to be so
much more pleasant and absorbing to me during this second sojourn, I
don’t want to stir up any more unneighborly dust here in Mixcoac this
evening than matches a pleasant mood.
--/--/ I’m glad to be of any help I can to Peggy, love her as always,
and enjoy her company (and we see quite a lot of each other) immensely.
Old friends are a God-send anywhere! Especially when they’re as good
sports as Peggy is.... She’s pretty fragile, but I think she’s happy
here, possibly more so than anywhere else right now. --/--/
372: TO MORTON DAUWEN ZABEL
(Postcard)
[_Mixcoac_] [_ca. October 10_]
Your letter this morning--and now the books. Putnam is more surprising
and magnificent than ever! Am glad to have such a challenge of a review.
373: TO SLATER BROWN
[_Mixcoac_] _Oct. 22nd_
Dear Bill: Please tell Malcolm that his article on the Munson-Josephson
“debate” has delayed my dinner by two hours of sore sides! “Old Nick”
(Jamaica) Rum _may_ have contributed a little to some pleasant distress,
but I still owe a debt.... I wish I had the two previous articles of the
series at hand; can’t you get Betty to sort them out and send them to
me?
From cock-crow to sunset, here in Mixcoac, my life is extremely jolly.
And then beyond.... How I wish you and Sue [Jenkins] were here
sometimes! Guitars and _corridas_ galore. Even _I_ am learning how to
sing! One thing I can’t seem to get around to do--and that’s the reviews
I contracted to do for _Poetry_. Have you seen Putnam’s new book of
poems, _The Five Seasons_? I’ve got to “do” that, and it’s almost too
big a job.
“Old Nick” and Nicotine keep me too occupied.
PS--Allen’s note on Milton was one of the best things in modern
criticism I expect to anticipate!
374: TO CHARLOTTE AND RICHARD RYCHTARIK
[_Mixcoac_] _Nov. 4, 1931_
Dear Charlotte & Richard: --/--/ Then there have been two rather
extensive visits to Taxco, pictures of which you’ve seen. David
Siqueiros, whom I consider to be the greatest of contemporary Mexican
painters, is living out there. He’s painted a portrait of me that is
astounding. When photographs are made I’ll have to send you one, and for
heaven’s sake don’t lose it, whether you like it or not. I don’t know
yet how I’m going to get the original up north. Siqueiros is the one who
painted the picture of that train flying along, that we took particular
notice of in the Carnegie exhibit at the Art Amusement last spring.
Remember? But that wasn’t a fair example of his vast power and scope at
all. He’s fundamentally a mural painter, and even his smaller paintings
have a tremendous _scale_. I bought a small water color of his, a
Mexican boy’s head, which you will be quite wild about. I’ve never seen
anything of Gauguin’s which was better. Indeed the two have a certain
plastic quality in common as well as the use of heavy pigments.
Siqueiros, however, is always _most_ Mexican and himself. The very soil
of Mexico seems spread on his canvasses.
The last two days have been important on the native Indian calendar: the
Day of the Dead. All over the country, and right here in this
metropolitan city, you will find the cemeteries full of dark-skinned men
and women, whole families in fact, sitting on tombstones day and night
holding lighted candles to the spirits of the dead. They bring their
food and drink with them. Far from being sad, it’s very merry. They
drink and eat much--and it all ends up by setting off firecrackers made
in the image of Judas. You must remember some of the amazing skeleton
toys and paper and clay skulls that we saw at that Mexican exhibition.
Well, they are for sale everywhere right now--and such a variety of
other beautiful trays, crockery, serapes, toys, etc., from all the
provinces as would drive you wild. A certain park in the city is set
apart for the _puestas_, or booths, that form this special market. A
walk through there beats the excitement of any museum I’ve ever been in.
--/--/
I’ve had some nice parties here in my house. I know more people than I
did before, and as far as space goes I might have sixty here at a time.
My servant plays the guitar and sings beautifully. Mexicans are always
bursting into song and strum away for hours. When I have a party it’s
easy to get him to bring in two or three of his friends, equally gifted,
and the result is such music, my friends, as would make your feet dance
and your eyes shine brightly all the night! The results were a little
too lively, in fact, one day last week when I gave a party to two
American boys who are touring down here in a big Lincoln car. One of
them suddenly climbed up on my roof, drawing the ladder after him, and
began pelting tiles down into the courtyard of my neighbor. I nearly had
heart failure before we got him down, since my neighbor is a crack shot,
and the provocations for shooting are much less here in Mexico than
anywhere I know. The kid had just drunk about a quart of _tequila_, so
of course it was only partly due to his response to the music! --/--/
375: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG
(Postcard)
[_Mixcoac_] [_November 10, 1931_]
Haven’t heard since that long letter I wrote you. And wonder if you got
it. Mail is sometimes opened here and not forwarded. I never know. If
I’m tampered with any more I intend to object, to the Secretary of State
who is a poet and knows me.
376: TO PEGGY BAIRD
[_Mixcoac_] _Nov. 13th_
Dear Peggy: I don’t think you need bother to consider me a friend any
more.
377: TO PEGGY BAIRD
[_Mixcoac_] _Thursday [ca. Nov. 14]_
Dear Peggy: I don’t know why I felt impelled to write you that gracious
note of yesterday, except perhaps on account of the heeby-jeebies--and
the fact that when I called with Daniel[67] in the morning I was refused
admittance.
Of course, if you really feel that strongly about it, for whatever
causes I don’t know, then we’ll have to remain apart. Please let me
contradict that note of yesterday, anyway.
378: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN
_Mixcoac, DF_ _Nov. 17th_
Dear Sam: --/--/ I haven’t been any too well lately. First a week’s
spell of the grippe--then lately a kind of half relapse, bad cold, back
ache, etc. All this in spite of heavenly weather, but not, I’m afraid,
despite a strenuous program of dancing, _tequila_ and amor. I’m on the
water wagon for awhile.... Meanwhile my house is in considerable tumult.
David Siqueiros (who is certainly the greatest painter in Mexico)
arrived Sunday night from his house in Taxco, with his wife and
doctors--so deathly ill from malaria that he had to be carried into the
house. No really expert medical attention being available in a town so
small as Taxco--and after 8 days of mounting fever--there was nothing to
do but rush to Mexico City. He contracted it during a long trip through
the _tierra caliente_, or “hot country” which is the wild jungleland of
Mexico near Acapulco along the Pacific coast. It is a marvelous trip,
but very strenuous and dangerous, through native villages where a tax
collector has never dared venture, and where the people wear the same
Aztec costume that Cortez found them in, there being several towns
entirely of Negroes (escaped slaves) who wear nothing but the slender
loin cloths of Africa and who shoot with bow and arrows. It seems
incredible, but Mexico is more vast than you can ever realize by looking
at a map and more various in its population than any country on earth.
Layer on layer of various races and cultures scattered in the million
gorges and valleys which make the scenery so plastic and superb.
Siqueiros is going to pull through all right, but I shall probably have
him here with me for a couple of months. Malaria takes a long time. I’m
glad to be of help in such a crisis, however, and since I had three
rooms which I never used the house really isn’t crowded.
I bought two fine paintings of S. which I hope someday you will see. I
guess I wrote you that he painted a portrait of me (about 4 by 2-1/2 ft)
which is causing much favorable comment. Besides which I have a splendid
watercolor of an Indian boy’s head. You have never seen anything better
by Gauguin, which, however, doesn’t describe the originality and
authenticity of these works. Then I have about a dozen small
watercolors, mostly landscapes, painted by Mexican children none of whom
are older than eight--these for about 20¢ apiece!
Of course the Siqueiros works cost me _considerably_, so much, in fact,
that I’ve been worried about making ends meet until my next quarterly
from the Guggenheims falls due Jan. 1st. For what was my great shock
after buying them to be notified that none of the income that I had been
assured of from the estate would be paid, and would continue unpaid
indefinitely! This meant that the paintings had to be paid for out of
the Guggenheim allowance--and in consequence I’m stranded excepting for
a few dollars remaining in my personal N.Y. account--until January 1st.
And it will be hard to cash personal checks hereabouts. And if business
doesn’t pick up before next May it probably means that I can’t continue
to stay in Mexico for awhile longer, as I had hoped to do.
Those masks that you bought last fall are undoubtedly Mexican. Even the
neo-Greek mask that puzzled me so. I am sure about them all being
Mexican because I’ve seen dozens in private collections and museums here
that have the same variety of stylizations. There is a great tradition
of masks here, and while those of yours may not be extremely old they
are decidedly not new nor sold around in the shops here, and are really
valuable. You have to go out to some of the most remote settlements to
get that sort, and they’re seldom to be bought because of their
religious significance.
I haven’t been able to resist buying some other things like serapes,
giant hats, embroideries, lacquer trays and Guadalajara pottery. You’ve
never seen such beautiful arts and crafts as the Indian element here has
perpetuated. Wm. Spratling’s collection at Taxco is one of the best, and
when his book comes out, called _Little Mexico_ (Cape & Smith), for
heaven’s sake read it. Its illustrations are many and will give you more
detail than I could squeeze into twenty letters.
This letter is becoming ungodly long--and I haven’t been able to tell
one fragment of all there is to tell. I’m not upset about the Eastman
and Mencken notices. There _was_ a quite serviceable editorial in _The
New Republic_ on the former a couple of weeks back. And if it provides
something for Burke and Cowley to write about--then so much the better.
They’re bound to be fairly loyal to my _style_, even if not to my
“personality.” It is even more consoling that a few people like yourself
maintain a constancy to both.
379: TO HIS STEPMOTHER
[_Mixcoac_] _Nov. 23rd_
--/--/ Last Friday the situation [Siqueiros’ visit] got so on my nerves
that I bolted for Tepoztlan. It proved to be the best of all remedies.
Long strenuous walks over rocks and mountains with my pack on my back,
pleasant encounters with some of the natives who remembered me from my
former visit, and baths in nearby streams--there’s really nothing like
getting out in the wilds occasionally to clear one’s head. I was invited
to a very sociable weekend party at a lovely house in Taxco, but I
preferred to be absolutely alone for a change. Deciding to walk from
Tepoztlan to Cuernavaca Sunday I got lost on a false trail through a
dense forest and stumbled about, not knowing where on earth I was for
hours. Thirsty!!! and blistered feet!!! Finally I came upon the railroad
track, miles from where I should have been, but was so glad to find
something _definite_ that I walked the ties for about four hours more
until I came [to] a small station outside Cuernavaca, a filling station
for locomotives. And there wasn’t much water left in the tank for future
trains when I got through drinking there, I can tell you. I didn’t
attempt any further exploits, but took the next train through to Mexico
[City]. I must have walked about 35 miles at least that day. But I’ve
felt swell ever since. Next time, however, I won’t carry so much in my
pack!
380: TO EDA LOU WALTON
_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Nov. 27th ’31_
Dear Eda Lou: I’m very glad to hear that you are applying for a
Guggenheim. You certainly deserve it and would make splendid use of it.
Mr. Moe, the Secretary, has sent me a copy of your proposed program
(this being part of the usual routine regarding references) and I shall
be greatly disappointed if you do not have a chance to carry it out.
Naturally my response to Moe will be very warm in your favor. However
slight your hopes may be there is evidence that at least you are being
considered seriously.
These are dull times for poetry, even as Mr. Mencken says, and I must
admit that with all my present salutary circumstances my impulses in
that direction are surprisingly low. A beautiful environment and
economic security are far from compensating for a world of chaotic
values and frightful spiritual depression. And I can’t derive any
satisfaction in the spinning out of mere personal moods and attitudes.
Meanwhile, I am, however,--or at least I feel I am--penetrating to a new
kind of world in the psychology of the Indians, hereabouts, though it
hasn’t taken on any real outline as yet. Everyone says that it takes a
long time to make an adjustment here. The infinite variety of climate,
vegetation, and the distraction of a new language as well as thousands
of fascinating sights and speculations, all combine to uproot one and
hold one in a strange suspension. At least I feel that I am living fully
and absorbing a great deal, whatever else. And that, I suppose, is a
considerably better state to be in than the dubious tenure some office
job would provide, if such indeed were even accessible! I like Mexico
and the Mexicans (Indians) so much that I’d like to remain here
permanently. I’m even thinking of attempting some work like teaching
(English Lit.) in one of the many private colleges if I can locate such
work before my Guggenheim fellowship expires. --/--/
381: TO ----
_Mixcoac, D.F._ _Nov. 30th_
Dear ----: The nature of the Mexican Indian, as Lawrence said, isn’t
exactly “sunny,” but he is more stirred by the moon, if you get what I
mean, than any type I’ve ever known. The fluttering gait and the powder
puff are unheard of here, but that doesn’t matter in the least.
Ambidexterity is all in the fullest masculine tradition. I assure you
from many trials and observations. The pure Indian type is decidedly the
most beautiful animal imaginable, including the Polynesian--to which he
often bears a close resemblance. And the various depths of rich coffee
brown, always so clear and silken smooth, are anything but Negroid. Add
to that--voices whose particular pitch will make the welkin ring--and
you have a rather tempting setting for an odd evening. Even Lawrence,
with all his “blood-fear” of them, couldn’t resist some lavish
descriptions of their fine proportions.
--/--/ I have a project of a poetic drama on Cortes and Montezuma, but
the more I see the more I realize how intricate the subject is--and how
much longer it is going to take me than I anticipated. --/--/
382: TO HIS STEPMOTHER
[_Mixcoac_] _December 12th, ’31_
Dear Bess: There is a distinct smell of powder in the air this evening.
But that isn’t all! Rockets are whizzing up sporadically for miles
around, and the sound of church bells far and near, has been incessant
since dawn. All of which is to say that this is an important day in the
Mexican calendar--nothing less, in fact, than the annual Feast of the
Virgin of Guadalupe, the particular Patroness of all Mexicans. This
year’s celebration is all the more extravagant, as she is reputed to
have “appeared” here (before a humble peon named Juan Diego) just four
hundred years ago today.
For weeks the influx of Indians and pilgrims of all types from all the
provinces and tribes of Mexico has been in progress. It is probably no
exaggeration to say that there are two hundred thousand extra souls,
pious and near-pious, who have flocked here to continue the _fiesta_
until New Year’s. But today--all of them, including the majority of
Mexico City’s population of one million--went to the little town of
Guadalupe Hidalgo, practically a suburb now, of Mexico City, where a
great cathedral has been erected near the spot where the Virgin is
reputed to have made her first appearance.
I engaged a cab the night before, and got up at four this morning to get
an early start, arriving before the Cathedral just at dawn. Even then
one couldn’t elbow one’s way into the church without waiting in line for
an hour. I gave that up, having come more to see some of the native
Indian dances that take place here and there throughout the town--some,
in fact, right in front of the cathedral. The whole business is simply
indescribable without ten reams of paper; but suffice to say that the
dances were wonderful. Certain people are picked from each district or
tribe for their marked ability--and there is quite a rivalry between
districts in the excellence of their performance. There are from 24 to
45 in a group, generally in circular formation, with banners, guitars
which they play as they sway and turn, and elaborate pantaloons, skirts,
feather crests, etc. Death and the Devil weave in and out among
them--and other masked figures, like wild boars and old
man-of-the-mountain.
I pushed and prodded from one group to the other, until by 9:30 I was
ready to come home; and did. I had taken Daniel along, and was glad of
it, since I just missed causing a riot by attempting to photograph some
of the dancers in action, which is, it seems, forbidden. The dancing is
all very serious and very set and formal; it generally derives from very
ancient tribal rites. It isn’t any sort of Mardi-Gras mood at all that
the Indians express, despite the flamboyant colors of their costumes.
Well, when I consider that the Indians, all of those, at least, that I
saw--had been dancing the same measure for practically all the night
before--continued all day after I left and WILL continue on the same
schedule for practically two weeks more--and ALL for the sake of a
ritual and _not a cent of money_--I must say I admire their devotion to
custom and tradition. The figure of the Virgin of Guadalupe miraculously
unites the teachings of the early Catholic missionaries with many
survivals of the old Indian myths and pagan cults. She is a typical
Mexican product, a strange blend of Christian and pagan strains. What a
country and people! The most illogical and baffling on earth; but how
appealing! I enclose the authoritative portrait of this Virgin, who, I
think, is quite beautiful. She is really the Goddess of the Mexican
masses, and you will find her image or picture everywhere, even when you
can’t see it--as for instance, inside the hat bands of wide _sombreros_.
It is rare to escape the sight of her--on a postcard or stencil above
the windshield facing half the taxi drivers of Mexico. For protection
and good luck! I think I shall have to “wear” her around with me for
awhile--likewise for “Protection and good luck” against the wiles and
extortions of some of those same drivers!
I haven’t heard from you in a long while--no answer yet to my last. But
I’m not complaining. I know the season, the other trials--and how filled
your time is. Thank you very much, by the way, for having arranged the
money payment for me through the Chase bank. It saved me many pesos on
the “exchange.” I won’t need to bother you again this month--nor next.
Matters go more smoothly with me as I get myself more acclimated to
Mexico, its habits and the peculiar strain of the high altitude here.
I’m feeling very well, and am even accused of getting fat.
As Christmas draws near I think much of the Season’s loss in all it can
give to you and me this year. Christmas always probes the deepest
memories, and the fondest; and I know what you will be thinking about
this Christmas, and how apt it will be to make the hearth seem cold. I
know your fortitude also, Bess,--and your natural, spontaneous response
to all that is good and enduring. And I’m sure, therefore, that
surrounded as you are by the loyalty and love of those whose names need
no particular mention, you’ll still find many reasons for gratitude and
even a bit of seasonal merriment. --/--/
1932
383: TO PEGGY BAIRD
[_Mixcoac_] _January 6th_
Dearest Peggy: I hope you got the $75. I sent yesterday afternoon. I
went first to the Mancera where I ate like a horse; then rushed to the
bank in time to get all I wanted. Daniel I found as drunk as usual when
I got home, but he did manage to get me a hot bath before eight, after
which I really began to enjoy my weariness. Slept fairly well--waking to
find old Mizzentop flaunting the colors still in valiant dreams of you.
M---- was here, besides the family box of goodies and about a million
letters. I’ll just never catch up, I’m sure. M., as I expected, is as
settled as ever.... I can foresee a number of needs, or rather uses for
him in the next fortnight.
Lesley [Simpson] is coming to lunch with me at the Mancera this noon.
All things considered, I am hoping that he, rather than anyone else,
will want to take over the house. For one thing it would mean that I
could trust _all_ my belongings to the premises--and be freer than ever
to move about as I took a notion to. I wouldn’t lose any more money in
the end than storage costs and transportation otherwise necessitated.
I’m in such a hectic rush this morning that I can’t do more than remind
you that you already know the depth of my love for you. The ride back
yesterday was psychologically so strange and new a meditation to me that
it seemed almost like sheer delirium. When I get more of the pressure of
events eased and a moment for a little personal thinking, I’ll write you
a more decent expression of my gratitude. I’m dying now to be off to
Acapulco with you in two weeks time, and almost every moment must be
bent to that end.
I’ll see Mary [Doherty] today or tomorrow about your clothes. Has
Malcolm replied yet? Let me know when to write him if he hasn’t. DAMN
that Putnam review! Of all times, now, to sharpen the critical blade!
But that’s what I get for procrastinating. Mexico [City] doesn’t look
any more tempting and reassuring than I expected. It’s cold, bloody
cold, of course, too.
I’m expecting a letter from you tomorrow, and often afterwards, dear
Twidget! Apply yourself well; don’t forget the toilet paper, the water
wagon, your typewriter, nor your Hart. -- -- -- --
384: TO MALCOLM COWLEY
_Mixcoac, DF_ _January 9th, 1932_
Dear Malcolm: I’ve just returned Maddow’s poems to him with a brief note
of appreciation, tempered by some objections to his chaotic structural
tendencies, etc. It’s hard to say much against a person who has so
obviously experienced one’s own temper and angle of vision. Furthermore,
I suspect that he is no more obscure to me (at his _worst_) than I have
been to hundreds of others. But what the hell! I don’t pretend to excuse
myself for a lot of things. He has power and original vision, though--if
he’s got the conscience and brains to channel them....
Peggy and I had the pleasantest Christmas and New Years together that I
remember for ages. Peggy’s usual mixed crowd appeared for the former
date; but I stayed long enough to enjoy a week alone with her. Taxco is
so extremely beautiful--and the townsfolk still so affable--that
whatever one has to say about the Yankee occupation (and that ultimately
seals its doom) it’s still one of the pleasantest places to be. Peggy
has probably written you about encounters with Brett, Bynner, King, et
al. Lewd limericks were shouted from the rooftops--your collection being
more than ever in demand. A mad crowd, though. -- -- -- --
I enjoyed your attack on Munson very much--that is, the initial
broadside that appeared in _The N.R._ But having read answers and
replies since then in _Contempo_, I’ve lived to regret those later
readings--from both sides of the battle line. Of course it was a great
mistake for Munson to have replied at all. No dignity could be saved
that way--and in the end it put you, too, into a rather apologetic
position. Your advantage rests--not chiefly, but partially--in the fact
that you initiated the fracas--and in a journal of vastly greater
circulation and weight than that little receptacle on Chapel Hill. Now
people are beginning to accuse you of being a successful politician. But
I hardly agree with that; I think that greater conquests are necessary
for that title, even though Mr. Boyd lay flaccid under the same swipe.
--/--/
385: TO PEGGY BAIRD
[_Mixcoac_] [_January?_]
Dearest: In case I don’t get off tomorrow morning for Taxco--and hence
anticipate this letter by kisses and much contentment--I want you at
least to know that it won’t be long before we are together again, for I
shall be with you certainly before Sunday.
Your letter of this morning makes me ache for you. Why is it you love me
so? I don’t deserve it. I’m just a careening idiot, with a talent for
humor at times, and for insult and desecration at others. But I can, and
must say that your love is very precious to me. For one thing it seems
to give me an assurance that I thought long buried. You can give me many
things besides--if time proves me fit to receive them: the independence
of my mind and soul again, and perhaps a real wholeness to my body.
Do you remember me saying that I would _not_ fall in love with you, or
with anyone again? But I find that though I like to perpetuate that
statement, I have really overruled it in a thousand thoughts and
emotions.
(The period on that last sentence was accompanied by a convulsion under
the table from Palomo. Rather horrible, in fact. I roused M----, we
called a policeman; but though the dog has resumed all the appearances
of his normality--we’ve relegated him to the shedroom in back of the
kitchen. Rabies are common here, so M---- says, and I shouldn’t wonder
if we’ll have to shoot the “dove.”)
Since there seems to be such a slight chance of renting the house, and
since I really can’t welsh on Eyler Simpson (who is equally responsible,
since he signed the lease with me) by just walking out--I’ve decided to
pay the $70. odd dollars difference by just keeping it--wherever else I
spend my time during the next three months. The family will just have to
fork up a loan or something for me, and I feel sure they will. I’m going
to try and avoid spoiling my remaining time in Mexico; and much more
worry about the house and my few items of possession would succeed in
doing so. Don’t you think I’m right?
Besides, M---- will be in on weekends, and will watch over the servant’s
care of things, and forward my mail wherever I am. I want you to go to
Acapulco with me--and after that I’m going to spend some time up in
Michoacan, Morelia, Lake Chapala, etc. I may end up in Jalapa (which is
very near Vera Cruz) but by that time I rather expect you’ll be with me.
I feel serene and happy in your love today, mad dogs and convulsions
notwithstanding!
386: TO ----
_Mexico, D.F._ [_January 15_]
Dear ----: --/--/ Your Christmas gift was a great surprise--and an
inspiration. Lawrence never wrote a greater story, nor one which
provoked less divided feelings. It was a great revelation to me, and I
shall read “The Man Who Died” more than once again. In all honesty--it
has more to tell me--at least in my present state of mind--than any book
in the Bible. It was originally published by the same people in Paris
who brought out my _Bridge_--under the title of, “The Escaped Cock”; but
I never happened to have read it before. I remember that they had a
terrible time with the customs, getting it into this country--and
largely on account of that title! Imagine! --/--/
387: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG
_Mixcoac, D.F., Mexico_ _Feb. 8th, ’32_
Dear Mony: As usual, I’m ignoring all the questions of your last
letter.... Don’t know how long I’m going to remain here, etc. Hate it
and love it alternately, but am not, as you surmise, in a constant
Bacchic state. Not by any means. However, I happen to be in something
approximating it at this present moment, since I’ve got to work on the
first impressive poem I’ve started on in the last two years.[68] I feel
the old confidence again; and you may know what that means to one of my
stripe!
The servants are all asleep--and I’m in that pleasant state of beginning
all over again. Especially as I’m in love again--and as never quite
before. Love is always much more important than locality; and this is
the newest adventure I ever had. I won’t say much more than that I seem
to have broken ranks with my much advertised “brotherhood”--and a woman
whom I have known for years--suddenly seems to “have claimed her own.” I
can’t say that I’m sorry. It has given me new perspectives, and after
many tears and groans--something of a reason for living.
So much for “Mexico.” I’m not able to write tourist sketches any more.
They take too long--and are only the more incomplete. I’ve lots to tell
you about all that some other day. And they needn’t be the less stirring
for a little delay. Meantime let me say that you are one of the few
heroes I know. I love your steadfastness and uncompromising attitude,
Mony. Have we the patience to endure? I say YES! -/-/
388: TO PEGGY BAIRD
[_Mixcoac_] _Feb. 10th_
Dearest: _So_ glad to hear from you this morning! I have been up late
for the past two nights, writing countless letters--and with a little
tequila (a very little!) walking back and forth the length of the room
to the tune of the records that we enjoyed so together. I haven’t really
seen anyone since you left; even M---- hasn’t shown up for 48 hours
again. The version of the beginning of “The Broken Tower” that I sent
you early this morning is probably to be changed a good deal yet. But
you seemed to hanker for it--and so I let ‘er fly.
I could be doing a lot these days, since I feel so much like working, if
the tension were less, around here. Sr. Daniel Hernandez is morose and
very threatening indeed, despite the fact that I haven’t even
reprimanded him for his recent drunkenness. Lisa is scared to death of
him, and warns me that there may be all kinds of trouble in store if I
fire him, since he knows about half the Police in Mixcoac, knows I have
no firearms on the place, etc. Well, neither can I bring myself to
endure his insolence and complete disregard of services much more. Sr.
Lepine, my landlord, is going to try to corner and talk to him this
afternoon, but Daniel won’t be around at the time, as Lepine, who called
this morning when D. was out, told his wife the hour when he’d return
this afternoon.
Oh Hell! I say. I’m getting so damned tired of the whole problem. Lisa
thinks she won’t dare remain after Daniel leaves on account of his
probably exposing her political affiliations. If you can’t find someone
from Taxco I shall probably be left here a perfect prisoner--without
even a telephone, and afraid to leave the place a minute. Well, don’t
see how I’m going to get any work done _this_ afternoon, nor probably
tomorrow. Damned outrageous, I think. Daniel will probably come lurching
in about 8 tonight and begin to flirt a knife and pistol about. Such a
quiet life in this pretty retreat!
It’s too bad you have to move so preemptorily--on the exact 15th. But
those scorpions worry me--especially their generous numbers. That house
will always attract them--being so on the side of a hill. I miss you a
lot, dear. Somehow we have such a lot to talk about together. I am
getting more and more serious and dignified day by day--getting maybe
back into myself--as well as into you.
389: TO PEGGY BAIRD
[_Mixcoac_] _Feb 11th_
Dearest: I was so tremulous and distracted with the domestic situation
as described yesterday to you, that last night I went on a mild tare
with Lisa here in the salon. I finally came to the decision of packing
up and leaving for the States within a week; there just didn’t seem to
be any other way of proceeding. I certainly felt fed up! Lepine didn’t
come round until this morning, and if he hadn’t offered me a new servant
who he swears is reliable, I think I should be sending you the telegram
I typed out last night, announcing my departure.
Lepine is sending me an old man he has known for 14 years, the most
honest soul, he declares, he has ever met. Lisa will stay, she says, and
cook. The combination will be perfect, and will result in little more
expense than I have been under right along. Lepine says that Daniel has
been wanting to work for “the general” for some time. I think they will
leave within a few days--and without umbrage. Certainly they have no
reason to resent my simple objection to constant drunkenness. Daniel
came home stewed again last night, after working all day at “the
general’s.” But I was too gay with Lisa and tequila and dancing--and my
secret resolution to pull out, to mind very much. I have a notion that
this rearrangement will be satisfactory. Certainly I’m lucky to have
Lisa here--so intelligent, generous, neat and efficient in a thousand
ways. She doesn’t ask for anything but her board and keep, but I shall
try to induce her into some sort of salary.
These photographs, I think, are perfectly splendid. I especially love
those of you with the goat! And you _ought_ to like the one of me.
Remember, I was looking at you--and the expression seems to bespeak a
lot of love and happiness. And what a scrumptious and monumental pose
that is of Lisa’s! Siqueiros really ought to see it.
Of course I’m anxious about your plans after leaving Natalia’s. You know
you’re welcome--more than that, my dear, to make this your future
headquarters. I miss you _mucho, mucho, mucho_! But I don’t think that
either of us ought to urge the other into anything but the most
spontaneous and mutually liberal arrangements. I am bound to you more
than I ever dreamed of being, and in the most pleasant and deep way. I
think I have wandered back to some of my early idealism, and in the
proper sort of way--without any arbitrary forcing or conscious
reckoning. You’re a great little “rouser,” my dear! -- -- -- --
390: To Peggy Baird
[_Mixcoac_] _Feb 13th_
Dear Peggy: I just can’t make up my mind to go traveling or even
visiting until I get through some real work here in Mixcoac. Somehow, it
seems to me that the time is ripe even though circumstances are
difficult; and if I can’t do any better I think I’ll just try to let the
domestic situation here “ride” as best possible--so long as there is no
pistol twirling. The place seems to run itself fairly smoothly with
Daniel away until 7-8-or-9 at night, and for the moment, at least,
relations are back again on a fairly friendly basis. I’m doing my best
not to think or worry too much about it. Certainly I shall avoid any
rows in the future. And it’s lucky--if I do finally dismiss Daniel--that
he can immediately go to work at a place such as the “general’s,” where
he has said for some time he wanted to remove, anyway. Under such
conditions I don’t see how he can possibly harbor much resentment.
I had a very enjoyable lunch and afternoon yesterday with Lesley and
Marion [Simpson]. She’s fundamentally very likable, I think. But I
should imagine that Lesley would welcome a little warmer company. He
seems more than satisfied, however, and is looking even better than
usual. In the morning I had been to the glass factory with Anita
[Brenner]. A very gratifying experience. I couldn’t resist buying a half
dozen wine glasses, of a smoky rose-purple transparency that set one
dreaming even when empty. Then some exquisite hand-woven textiles (table
and pillow covers, cotton) in the afternoon from Davis’s--made in
Oaxaca, and quite unique. I almost bought myself a turquoise and silver
ring; but Lesley and Marion dragged me out in time. It’s dangerous for
me to hang around town very long.
The strangest rumors circulate about Natalie’s house. She seems to have
written someone, I forgot whom, that she hasn’t sold it at all, and
doesn’t intend to. Then Davis, who seems to hear everything, reports to
me that “the Kings are leaving Taxco and intend to settle somewhere up
in northern New York.” I had to smile at this, recognizing the source,
etc. But I didn’t know that the plan had ripened to such a decided and
public extent as yet. If they aren’t coming in until Tuesday I wish they
would wire me to that effect by noon on Monday. I’ll expect them
overnight Monday otherwise. I want to have provisions on hand, too, and
fresh at the proper time.
I’m going to make a stab again at the Putnam review this afternoon. I’m
feeling shabbier and shabbier about my delay.... Must send up
_something_ anyway. And maybe later I’ll catch up the creative thread of
my poem again. After all I’ve been through lately, it just doesn’t seem
to exist any more.
So glad to hear you’ve finished your story! Where do you intend sending
it? Lots of love, dear! -- -- -- --
391: TO PEGGY BAIRD
[_Mixcoac_] _Feb 16th_
Dearest: I was in the mood for swearing last night that I wouldn’t write
you for at least a week. My blast at the Kings, I felt, needed some very
definite and concrete “substantiation”--such as a long, glum silence;
which I hoped might worry you. But, really, I find daily communication
with you quite irresistible. Especially when your reciprocation is so
regular and--need I say? charming. And then, besides, the entire
household has been in such a perfectly delightful mood all day,--I can’t
really be sad or important.
True to my word last night, I got very lit. Daniel had come home that
way anyhow, and I took the opportunity to talk to him about
sobriety--meanwhile pouring him glass after glass of the Tenampa I’d
bought for the Kings. The more he drank the more he talked of “his” or
“our” Pegguié--accent on the penult;--but you will be able to pronounce
that without the acquaintance of Quintilian anyway, I’m sure. You’re
very popular around here, and I’m sure that if you care to come and stay
with me for awhile you will be regarded as the pet of the place--since
Elise and Conrada both dote on you--as well as myself. M---- just isn’t
around for days and days any more.
Daniel is not drunk tonight; rather he appeared at 6 PM with a large
bush of _buena de noche_, from the _jardine del general_, as well as a
large bouquet of heliotrope. Judge what the sala smells like with a
large bunch of tuberoses also, which I purchased yesterday in honor of
the Kings! Some times I think this house is the nicest place in the
world. It certainly could be--in a not ambitious way. My temperamental
reversals of opinion regarding Mexico are a joke. I now regard myself as
a confirmed idiot who can’t make up his mind about anything whatever any
more.
I can’t yet figger how Tommy [Robert Thompson] could say we looked like
“two waifs” sitting on a strange doorstep. Yes, that letter was
distinctly below his usual level. Got a fine long letter from Peggy
Robson yesterday, which hints at the same relations with -- -- -- --that
you mentioned. Well, well, and _como no_! She also said that Malcolm (in
long underwear) and Waldo left together in the same truck for the scene
of action. Perhaps common suffering will weld a friendship there, after
all. By the way, I don’t believe a thing of your wagon wagon, water
wagon story. Especially with Luz around, who Lisa says is a great little
tanker. I have my own ideas about the sobriety of those nights of yours
in such company, and how “lonely” they are. Just as long as you don’t
let your right hand know what your left hand doeth, as they say. I’ll
keep the same code, at least with my index finger. --/--/
392: TO PEGGY BAIRD
[_Mixcoac_] [_Feb?_]
Dearest Peggy: Everything is very much at loose ends again since Daniel
appeared dead drunk again yesterday afternoon--and I had to spend the
rest of the day and evening cogitating and recogitating just what was to
be done about it. I’m very near firing him (the case seems to be
hopeless, and I just can’t stand being “run” by servants to such an
extent). Also, I’ve lost a lot of confidence in him since Lisa has
discovered that he has my watch and fob in his cabin, which Conrada
unwittingly showed her the other day. Whether Filemon took it or not in
the first place makes very little difference....
So, will you squint around--and ask Bill [Spratling] also to keep an
open eye for a mozo for me there in Taxco. There are plenty of honest
youngsters there who are known to be honest and would welcome the idea
of coming to Mexico for a few months. Lisa (and everybody else) says
that you’re sure to pick a thief no matter who you hire here in Mexico.
I would never have a peaceful moment with one of them around; whereas a
boy from Taxco [would] behave differently, especially if his family
could be referred to there. I don’t say send anyone at present, but I
wish you would be ready to immediately if I should wire you to one of
these days. Maria Luisa’s brother (not the goblin midget), or Raphael,
I’m sure, would be glad to come. Cleaning and gardening and errands--you
know the slight requirements. I would pay them 10-15 pesos a month with
board. I’m hoping to keep Lisa as cook, but she isn’t enough by herself
on account of having to remain constantly with her child. She’s done
more spontaneous cleaning around the place in the last two days than I
can tell you. Ask Bill to find out if Santiago is satisfied at the
Taxqueno. When I last talked to him he was very keen to come to
Mexico--at almost any cost. If I should wire for immediate action I’m
sure you wouldn’t mind advancing the bus and taxi fare, would you? You
know this house simply cannot be left alone a minute. And I don’t see
how I can possibly stand it much longer in its present equivocal state.
I worked late on my poem[69] last night despite all the disturbance, and
willy-nilly shall get some work accomplished, at least correspondence,
today. The enclosed was delivered by a man from Taxco last evening, and
I think it’s the money from Leslie that failed of being enclosed in his
letter to you of yesterday. M---- absent another night! --/--/
Clinton [King] wrote me a long letter of apology--which was more than
sufficient. I haven’t much ground to stand on myself when it comes to
drunken outbreaks and melodramatic abuse of my friends, so it makes it
very easy indeed for me to forgive and forget. They are two very decent
and lovable people and I’m glad they like me enough to speak as they do.
If Clinton ever bombs and bombards me again in the same manner I’ll know
better how to take it. I’m looking forward to some pleasant times
together when they come to Town. Please convince them of my affection
and hope of seeing them. --/--/
Don’t forget about my servant problem, dear. You know it’s yours in a
way, too. I want things to be smoother than before on your next “visit”
to Mixcoac, besides which I want to get my mind free for work as soon as
possible. I’m really in extraordinarily good condition and do hope you
also feel more settled and industrious.
I hope to send you more of the poem in a few days.
393: TO HIS STEPMOTHER
_Mixcoac, DF_ _Feb. 17th, 1932_
Dear Bess: --/--/ I get so aggravated at times that I swear I’ll pack up
and leave for the States on the first available boat. Then the next
clear and glorious morning comes around, with fresh flowers in the
garden, good coffee on the stove--and the renewed vision that sleep
brings.... Then I change my mind all over again. For I know that as soon
as I go back I’ll regret it--and long and long for Mexico again. Not
that I plan on staying here forever; but for the time being the business
situation in the States is zero. There’s nothing I can really do there.
And although I have found that living here is far from being as cheap as
it’s cracked up to be, it _is_ less, on the whole, and when one
learns--and how long it takes!--to wade around and learn one’s depth and
altitude--one can make a good deal of a lame proposition. At least
Mexico affords me time and space. I’m not so giddy as I once was about
_all_ its features; but a very pleasant residue remains. And I’m just
getting to know it well enough to get down to work on my poetry and
other creative work.
Bess, you certainly have given a demonstration of real heroism in
handling the factory rent problem as you have. I sense a certain amount
of weariness in your letter; and I can well understand the causes and
the justifications. The sheer day-to-day strain of management,
complicated as it is, I know to be a burden--a real cross to bear.
You’re one of the finest people I’ve ever met or expect to meet I’ve
always been so glad that Father found someone at last who really took
the pains to understand him; because he was certainly a difficult person
to comprehend. He had many faults, too. I only regret that I was so
late in realizing his many virtues. [The rest of this letter is lost.]
394: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN
_Mixcoac, DF_ _March 10th, 1932_
Dear Sambo: --/--/ Rather amazing things have happened to me since Xmas.
Peggy Cowley [Baird], whom you certainly remember as Malcolm’s wife, and
who is -- -- -- -- here in Mexico, is mainly responsible. You may have
heard that we are now living together, and I must admit that I find
conjugal life, however unofficial, a great consolation to a loneliness
that had about eaten me up. Maybe I am fulfilling some of your theories
and predictions. --/--/
Just about 20 more days before my scholarship is officially terminated.
But I have my doubts about coming back before six months, and maybe not
that soon. I can’t hope to find any interesting work in the States for
some time, meanwhile the estate has guaranteed me at least a portion of
the yearly allowance left me by my father, which will go farther here
than in the north. Besides I’m just getting to work on a few things--and
Peggy and I enjoy Mexico more than ever, being together.
How I wish you could step into our house here some afternoon! Week by
week I’ve collected more and more beautiful Mexican serapes, leather
work, pottery, embroideries, lacquers, etc. Fresh bunches of lilies,
tuberoses, violets, nasturtiums, etc., every day from the garden. The
white iris is just coming out, too. When my lease on this house
expires--6 weeks from now--we’re going to do more traveling. There are
at least twenty wonderful towns and places I haven’t yet visited. Last
week we went to Puebla. I only visited 2 of its 365 churches and chapels
(one for every day of the year) and what gold and decorations and
carvings I saw defies description. We came back laden down with gorgeous
pottery and serapes, etc., from the superb market there. --/--/
395: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG
_Mixcoac, D.F._ _March 20th ’32_
Dear Mony: What a fine, understanding and spirited letter that was from
you! Proving not only your friendship again but the clean and heroic
attitude you hold toward life also.... Not that I have ever doubted
either one, but fresh reassertions of that kind are always highly
gratifying. --/--/
Peggy and I are still very happy together here. -- -- -- -- We’ve known
each other for nearly 12 years, intimately--but never dreamed, of
course, of our present happy relationship. How permanent that will be is
far from settled; but we have learned to enjoy the present moment
without too much romanticizing--which I think is wisdom.
Wish you could see--and smell--all the delicious flowers that surround
our house: calla lilies, freesia, roses, calendulas, white iris,
violets, cannas, a dozen colors of geraniums, pansies, feverfew, candy
tuft, morning glories, etc. The days are getting warmer and all the
deciduous trees are back again in fresh leaf. My fellowship is about
terminated, but I expect to stay on here for several months longer if
the income from my father’s estate seems to warrant. Am even thinking of
making my permanent home here. Mexico gets into your veins. Beautiful
people, manners, scenery, speech and climate.
The poem (“Broken Tower”) has undergone considerable change and
extension since the version I sent you. I’m so glad that you liked it.
I’m not sending any more of it to you, however, until it’s quite
finished.
There is a small group of quite interesting compatriots here which
gathers occasionally at one or the other of our houses--most of whom are
Guggenheim fellows like myself. Carleton Beals and wife; Anita Brenner;
Marsden Hartley, the painter, who has just arrived and who is wildly
enthusiastic; Lesley Simpson (University of California) and wife; Pierre
& Caroline Durieux, head of General Motors here; Wm. Spratling, whose
book _Little Mexico_ (just out) you ought to read, etc. Plenty of good
company, in fact, for one like myself who doesn’t care for a great many
people.
A way, way back you asked me a question about what I thought of _Moby
Dick_. It has passages, I admit, of seeming innuendo that seem to block
the action. But on third or fourth reading I’ve found that some of those
very passages are much to be valued in themselves--minor and subsidiary
forms that augment the final climacteric quite a bit. No work as
tremendous and tragic as _Moby Dick_ can be expected to build up its
ultimate tension and impact without manipulating our time sense to a
great extent. Even the suspense of the usual mystery story utilizes that
device. In _Moby Dick_ the whale is a metaphysical image of the
Universe, and every detail of his habits and anatomy has its importance
in swelling his proportions to the cosmic rôle he plays. You may find
other objections to the book in mind, but I’ve assumed the above to be
among them, at least, as I among others that I know, found the same
fault at first. --/--/
396: TO CARESSE CROSBY
_Mixcoac, D.F._ _March 31st, 1932_
Dear Caresse: --/--/ As I have not been near that Bank, c/o which you
wrote me, for months and months until yesterday, your message and gift
remained in complete limbo! Judge my surprise and pleasure at what
appeared--practically from limbo!
The poems for Harry [Crosby] are an everlasting litany of chivalry and
love. The whole collection achieves a power in repose, a
renunciation-plus, that is very rare. I hope you are writing more and
more, Caresse; for the sheer vision of your nature deserves an ever
branching extension and expression. You really come up to the great
themes of Love and Tragedy, as very few women can, at least in words.
My Guggenheim Fellowship terminates today. But I am remaining a while
longer in Mexico on the modest income afforded me from my father’s
estate, since his death last July. At that time I came North for two
months, but was very glad to get back here again as soon as possible.
Mexico with its volcanoes, endless ranges, countless flowers, dances,
villages, lovely brown-skinned Indians with simple courtesies, and
constant sunlight--it enthralls me more than any other spot I’ve ever
known. It _is_ and isn’t an easy place to live. Altogether more strange
to us than even the orient.... But it would take volumes to even hint at
all I have seen and felt. Have rung bells and beaten pre-Conquistadorial
drums in firelit circles at ancient ceremonies, while rockets went
zooming up into the dawn over Tepoztlan; have picked up obsidian arrows
and terra-cotta idols from the furrows of corn-fields in far valleys;
bathed with creatures more beautiful than the inhabitants of Bali in
mountain streams and been in the friendliest jails that ever man got
thrown in. There is never an end to dancing, singing, rockets and the
rather lurking and suave dangers that gives the same edge to life here
that the mountains give to the horizon. Harry would have adored it--past
expression--and I am sure you would. I should like to stay indefinitely.
My Spanish is still as lame as my French when I left France. Of the
“Epic”--I haven’t yet written a line. Only a few lyrics. But then, what
did I actually write while in Europe--an environment not half so strange
and distractingly new-old curious as this? Besides I’m nearly two miles
above you here in the air--at least while I remain in these headquarters
of mine in the suburbs of Mexico City,--an old-fashioned Mexican
residence of 8 rooms, 3 servants, a luxurious garden--with a goat,
fighting cock, cat, Spitz dog and an occasional scorpion--all for $50. a
month. But I’ve about made my adjustment now and am beginning to rap the
typewriter a good deal lately. With the world all going to hell--what
can one gather together with any confidence these days anyway? But I’m
realizing responsibilities--or doubtless should have written quite a bit
of trash, which might have been better mentioned than perused.
Do you see Kay [Boyle] and Lawrence [Vail] any more? Kay’s novel
_Plagued by the Nightingale_ (and how they please over here!) impressed
and delighted me immensely. --/--/
397: TO MALCOLM COWLEY
[_Mixcoac_] _Easter ’32_
Dear Malcolm: Peggy and I think and talk a great deal about you. That
means in a very fond way, or it wouldn’t be mentioned. I’m wondering
whether or not you’ll like the above poem [“The Broken Tower”]--about
the 1st I’ve written in two years.... I’m getting too damned
self-critical to write at all any more. More than ever, however, do I
implore your honest appraisal of this verse, prose or nonsense--whatever
it may seem. Please let me know.
And because I congratulate you most vehemently on your recent account of
the Kentucky expedition--please don’t tell me anything you don’t
honestly mean. This has already been submitted to _Poetry_--so don’t
worry about that angle.
I miss seeing you a great deal. Peggy is writing you some sort of
account of the Easter celebrations here. We’re very happy together--and
send you lots of love!
398: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN
[_Mixcoac_] _Easter ’32_
What a jolly long letter from you, Sam! I can’t get time to answer
immediately, but here’s a poem [“The Broken Tower”]--about the first in
2 years--tell me if you like it or not. Happiness continues, with also
all of the gay incidentals of a Mexican Easter--exploding Judases,
rockets, flowers, pappas (excuse me, that’s the spelling for Mexican
potatoes!), mammas, delicious and infinitesimal children wearing masks
and firemen’s helmets, flowers galore and a sky that carries you ever
upward! More anon, and soon!
399: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG
_Mixcoac, DF_ _April 12th, 1932_
Dear Mony: So glad to hear that the lacquer box reached you--and I hope
there wasn’t duty on it. Things often get through (small articles) I’m
told--if not sent by registered mail. The cutter is awaiting me at the
main post office. At least I take the notice just rec’d to indicate
_that_ as the article, as I’m not expecting anything else of late.
-- -- -- --
I’m in a dull mood today, trying to get back into harness after a couple
of feverish weeks spent in running thither and yon every day or so to
borrow enough money to keep us going until my check from the estate
finally arrived. Somehow I can’t get people to understand that any break
in schedule regarding remittances in a foreign country like Mexico is
quite catastrophic, especially when, like myself, you’re asking for a
mere minimum for all expenses, and when the first of each month finds
you with less than a shoe string to meet all obligations. Finally after
borrowing money for wires, writing a dozen letters, etc., the check
arrived; but I hope for a little more consistent treatment in the
future. After all, it isn’t like asking for a favor; the money was left
me in the will, and the least the executors can do is to send it to me
on the schedule agreed on.
Through the son-in-law of the President I’m acquiring a permanent
passport; something damned hard to get here these days. Peggy and I
shall probably stay here at least until next fall, and maybe longer. We
like our isolation from mutual friends there in the north and our
domestic life here with a house, servants, garden, pets, etc., proves
more satisfying every day. If I can avoid drinking too much I’m
expecting to get nearer solid earth than I have for several years. Sheer
loneliness had nearly eaten me up. Peggy has sufficient sportsmanship,
mentality, taste and sensuality to meet me on practically every level.
And I think I’m learning considerable that would hardly be possible from
any other person.
--/--/ Most all the letters we get from the north are pretty damned blue
and dubious in tone. Well, no wonder, of course. I sometimes wonder if I
shouldn’t go back and wail around the grave of capitalism myself,
adopting sackcloth and ashes too, instead of the beautiful bright
woolen serape worn around here on cold evenings. All my friends are
turning at least a violent pink lately, and I’m almost convinced myself.
In fact, by all the laws of logic I _am_ convinced. But it goes so
against my native grain--seeing nothing but red on the horizon. --/--/
Speaking of music, did you ever hear any _real_ Mexican songs and
dances? Some of the best of them are now on disks which can be ordered,
if not in stock, at least from the factory through your dealer: _Las
Mañanitas_ (Brunswick #40397) might have been composed by Bach. It’s a
ceremonial song played to one or another Mexican in honor of his
birthday. Very solemn and eloquent. _La Marihuana_ (Victor 46107-A), a
wild jargon about the native drug of the same name (generally smoked in
cigarettes) and its effects. _Capulin_ (Victor 30323-A). A wild and
throbbing native canción that will set you prancing.
The Mexican singer uses a part of his throat or larynx never used
elsewhere that I know of, except in the Orient or Arabia. It has great
range, is generally shrill but capable of heart-wringing vibrations. Has
the old Hawaiian gargling backed off the map. It is nothing to have four
or five singers (masons, plumbers or pickslingers during the day) drop
in here for an evening’s singing. And to my mind they’re generally
preferable to all the trained and professional strummers and whoopers-up
I’ve ever heard. Tequila is passed around; or beer; or coffee. And the
corridas (endless ballads) and seranatas go on for hours and hours.
There are endless corridas about “poor Pancho Villa,” Zapata and other
dead revolutionaries. And then, if we’re drunk enough, someone dances a
_jarabe_, a dance that is all vibrant gristle, emphasis and exhausting
grace. -- -- -- --
400: TO SAMUEL LOVEMAN
_Mixcoac, DF_ _April 13th, 1932_
Dear Sam: --/--/ Marsden Hartley, the painter, is here on his
Guggenheim, as well as Andrew Dasburg. I don’t know the latter, but
Hartley is delightful company and has brought a young nephew from
Cleveland along with him who paints, on canvas, I mean.... Then I got a
letter from Charlotte [Rychtarik] saying that she and Richard expected
to motor down with some of their wealthy Cleveland friends--only to hear
just yesterday, that a relative had died suddenly in Europe, money had
to be sent--and therefore the trip had to be abandoned. Charlotte is
philosophical enough, but I’m sorry not to see her refreshed by Mexico.
Well ... maybe later. My biggest surprise in a long while, however, has
been a note from dear old D---- C----. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten
our old Cleveland hero! Who is still trying to write novelettes and best
sellers in Des Moines. At least he says he’s still trying. Is also the
friend of some fellows who are trying to start up a quarterly, and
wouldn’t I kindly send them some poems of mine.... I must write him a
picture card at least in answer; but I’m damned if I want to continue
any correspondence of that kind.
That last of yours was a bang up letter, Sam. Say what you will, you
certainly haven’t lost your old good humor and sympathy. I love to think
of my “Ka” as you and the Egyptians call it, still haunting my basement
basinette on Col. Hts. Good lord, but how I jumped to my feet right into
a perfect salute yesterday when suddenly--over the neighbor’s radio--I
caught the chorus of that old favorite of mine, “The Navy Blues” ...
which certainly you can’t have forgotten either. Which reminds me that I
still haven’t heard from B---- S----since the recent fatal cyclones that
swept right across his home town in A----. I wrote immediately for
assurances of his welfare and safety. But no word yet. I can never
forget that sweet boy; and his letters to me for the last two years have
been so consistently affectionate and nostalgic that they sometimes
bring tears to my eyes.
--/--/ Peggy and I have each of us written Tommy [Thompson] a letter
today. I hope they cheer him up a little. He’s so shy he almost never
writes any tangible news about himself. Just wise cracks, burlesque
slogans, oblique hints: all very witty and amusing, but not quite
explicit enough about himself to really fully satisfy. He’s probably
having his worries these days. --/--/
Dos Passos has written a very important record of the war and the “war
mind” in _1919_. Do read it, Sam. My old friend (though an “enemy for
awhile”) Claire (Spencer) Smith, who wrote _Gallows Orchard_, and
another friend of Peggy’s, Wm. Seabrook’s wife, barged in on us the
other day on the way to Cuernavaca, and loaned me the book to read.
Claire has just finished her second novel, which Hal Smith is bringing
out in May. We had a great reconciliation and I’ve decided that I’m not
the only one who has improved since our ancient misunderstandings.
--/--/
401: TO SOLOMON GRUNBERG
_Mixcoac_ _April 20th_
Dear Mony: Just a hasty note in the fever of packing and final
arrangements.... My plans for staying in Mexico have been completely
reversed by a suit against the estate which may cut me off from any
income for years. Since I’m having to depend even now entirely on loans
from my stepmother’s salary the only thing possible to do is return to
Chagrin Falls and try to work some of it out in service to the
organization, several branches of which are approaching bankruptcy. Not
a very happy prospect....
Am sailing for NY on the _Orizaba_ from Vera Cruz on the 24th. Shall
probably land in NY without a penny. Could you send me a small loan of
some kind c/o Hotel Lafayette, University Place & 11th St.? It would be
wonderful if you could happen to be in NY sometime during the three or
four days I hope to be there before going into my middle western exile.
This crash has prevented my collecting the cutter as yet, but I hope to
get it before leaving if I have anything like the pesos to pay the duty
charges. If not it may come back to you. I’ve had an awful time all
round lately ... will tell you later. -- -- -- --
402: TO MORTON DAUWEN ZABEL
_Mixcoac, DF_ _April 20th, 1932_
Dear Morton Zabel: I’ve suddenly been called north on account of
business. Sailing immediately and probably won’t return to Mexico. Will
you kindly have my subscription address [changed] to my permanent
residence; _Box 604, Chagrin Falls, Ohio_....
About a month ago I sent you a poem, for possible use in _Poetry_, but
have not as yet heard from you about it. The letter may have gone astray
for all I know, as service isn’t any too reliable here.[70]
I hope I may hear from you soon after my arrival in Ohio. -- -- -- --
403: TO _Contempo_[71]
_Mixcoac, Mexico_ _April 20, 1932_
Dear Contempo: Delighted to hear that you like the “Bacardi” poem and
are using it.
I’m leaving for the States in a few days and can’t write you a decent
response at the moment. But I hope you meant what you said about sending
me _Contempo_ regularly. And I should like to do reviews when I get
settled in the north again.
Please address me from now on at Box 604, Chagrin Falls, Ohio, where I
shall probably be after May 10th.
P.S. I should love to review MacLeish’s _Conquistador_ for you if you
haven’t already assigned it elsewhere.
404: TO HIS STEPMOTHER
_Mixcoac_ _April 22nd ’32_
Dear Bess: Pardon me for wiring Byron [Madden] about money, but so many
difficulties came to a head at once here, and with myself weak from a
fever and dysentery I had to use every way of impressing on you the
urgency of my immediate needs. And I imagine that you may well have been
too preoccupied to realize the situation here anyway--even in part.
Altogether I’ve had a terrible time lately. I can’t begin to write the
details now in the finalities of packing. I leave for Vera Cruz tomorrow
night and sail Sunday morning on the _Orizaba_ for New York. I was
planning to return to Ohio even before the shocking news came about the
W---- matter. But with that having happened I wouldn’t have thought of
staying here another minute anyway. I may be able to be of some help to
you this summer. Anyway I want to make the effort, especially since you
must be quite crippled (at least at the Cottage) without Dorothy’s help.
You can’t imagine how difficult the Mexicans make it for any foreigners
to remain here--comfortably. I love the country and the people (Indians)
but certainly have had my fill of passport difficulties, servant
problems and other complications for awhile. I have been not only
ill--but frightened nearly out of my wits because I happened, in all
innocence, to put my passport-renewal problem in the hands of a
lawyer-crook. It’s all right; I have clearance papers; but it involved
me in a lot of expense, consultations with innumerable people and just
endless worry. Then at the last moment my servant got roaring drunk and
left, and came back and shook the gate to its foundations, yelling
threats against my life, terrorizing us for days, until we had to call
on the American Embassy for special police service, etc., and so on. Do
you wonder I’ve been anxious to get off as soon as possible. Thank God
the lease on my house is already expired--and there can be no further
complications that I know.